Wrong!
by Cheddarboots
Summary: Sherlock is back after the Reichenbach Fall! And so is his unlimited texting plan, which he uses to his advantage against a group of journalists seeking the truth behind the Fall. Meanwhile, a certain ex - army doctor and a DI from Scotland Yard also receive these messages. The World's Only Consulting Detective and his blogger are back!
1. Chapter 1

Lestrade was trying, and failing, to keep his temper with the journalists. One had claimed to have had seen the 'Fallen Detective' wandering the streets, and, of course, the rumour had spread like wildfire. After much pestering and weeks of having his mailbox stuffed with requests to take an interview about the possible return of Sherlock, Lestrade finally decided to resolve the problem and give the journalists their interview. He felt bad about blatantly denying the fact that Sherlock could still be alive, as he knew that a public confrontation on the topic of Sherlock would not help John's condition. Even after three years, John was still grieving over his best friend's death and it had been getting harder to keep in contact with him.

"Donovan!" Lestrade called irritably.

The sergeant came hurrying over, carrying various folders under her arm.

"Yes, sir?"

Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded. "All right, let's go. Let's just get this interview over with, no disclosing any details of the autopsy and try not to upset John too much."

The moment Lestrade, flanked by Donovan, walked briskly into the conference hall, they were greeted with seemingly never – ending bright flashes of the journalists' cameras and shouts of "Over here!". Lestrade and Donovan took their seats at the long table amid the flashes of light, Donovan noisily dropping her stack of notes down on the table. Lestrade put his hands together on the table top and pressed his lips together, surveying the crowd of journalists. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John limp in, leaning heavily on his cane, a hollow, unreadable expression on his face. Lestrade tried to catch his eye and nodded in his direction, but John didn't seem to notice the brief greeting. He sat heavily down in a chair in a corner, away from the reporters. _Hope the poor guy doesn't get mobbed by the press, _Lestrade thought. Unfortunately for him, all the attention was turned to the Detective Inspector at the moment. "First question," Lestrade stated, and he mentally prepared himself for the oncoming melee of questions.

John sat and brooded in the corner, almost forgetting the main purpose of his coming to the interview. It had taken him days to pluck up the courage to go to the conference after Lestrade had informed him of it. Originally, John had decided to come to the interview to ensure that Lestrade hadn't given any revealing information or intruding questions had been asked by the reporters. Although the conference would have lasted only a while, it had still taken much of his courage for him to come. John had taken Sherlock's death very badly. His limp had returned with a vengeance and the trembling in his left hand was frequent. He was no longer the John that Scotland Yard knew, but there was little they did that actually managed to cheer John even the slightest bit. Somewhere in the whirlwind of his thoughts, he heard Lestrade call for the first question from the group of journalists.

A reporter in the front row, a short woman with large framed glasses and hair pulled back in a strict bun, called out: "Is it true that Sherlock Holmes is a fake?" John felt a sudden swell of anger and snapped out of his thoughts. Of course Sherlock wasn't a fake! He looked at Lestrade, expecting him to come to Sherlock's defense. Lestrade's eyebrows knitted together, clearly disagreeing with the question, and opened his mouth to respond. However, nobody there was prepared for what happened next.

A loud chorus of notification tones rang throughout the conference hall, and all the journalists fell silent. Lestrade glanced at Donovan, a look of utter disbelief and confusion written all over his face. Donovan had an expression of pure shock all over her face, but she quickly wiped the expression off and quickly whipped out her phone. Meanwhile, everyone else was hastily doing the same.

When John heard the strange chorus of messages, his head snapped up to look around the room. _It can't be. _John badly wanted to believe it was his best friend, that Sherlock was back. But it couldn't be possible. He had watched Sherlock jump off St. Bart's hospital, watched him fall and hit the ground with a sickening thud. The memory of his best friend lying in the rapidly spreading pool of blood came back to him, and he reeled back, squeezing his eyes shut as if the memory had forcibly hit him. _Just someone playing a prank, _he decided.

Until one of the journalists said uneasily: "It says 'Wrong!'.

Deathly silence spread throughout the room. John yanked his mobile out of his trouser pocket, fingers fumbling with the keys in his haste to open the message. Just as the reporter had said, the message read 'Wrong!". John stared at the message until the screen blurred. He slowly raised his head to meet Lestrade's gaze. Lestrade clearly had confusion and shock written all over his face as he stared back at John in disbelief. Donovan quickly cleared her throat. "Next question."

Lestrade mentally thanked Donovan for her quick input as he sat dumbly in his chair, trying to process what he just saw. It couldn't possibly be Sherlock. Molly had examined the corpse in the morgue, and turned in a report. It had to be a prank. Just a prank. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Just as Lestrade was scrambling to collect his thoughts and regain his composure, the next question threw him off again. "Is Sherlock Holmes actually dead?"

The chorus of notification tones sounded even faster this time. A heavy curtain of silence hung anew in the air. Just like the first message, the messages also read 'Wrong!'. Lestrade glanced at John. He looked as if he'd lose his lunch any minute. _That is, if he had eaten any lunch._

John felt like he would start crying right there and then when the second round of messages came. What a cruel trick someone was playing! Roughly grabbing his mobile as he blinked away the tears that threatened to fall, he stared at the screen again. It was the exactly same as the first message, directly answering the journalists' question. He looked up, trying to find anyone in the crowd who could possibly be responsible. However, upon finding the same dumbfounded expression on every face in the room, he shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm his raging emotions. Just a mean joke that some hacker was playing.

"Last question!" Lestrade hastily asserted, in an attempt to break the expectant silence. "DI Lestrade, did you expect this to happen?" A man in a suit shouted.

"Of course I didn't! We can't yet confirm if these messages are being sent by Sherlock himself, but we will definitely look into this matter." With that, Lestrade abruptly stood up and strode off the platform at the front of the room, Donovan at his heels.

For a moment, the press didn't know what to make of the events in the last half – hour. Surprisingly, they didn't swarm after Lestrade and Donovan like they usually would have. They slowly began to pack up their equipment and leave. Luckily, many of them missed John, who was still seated in his corner and staring dumbly ahead. _Just a joke, _he told himself. _It's just a prank. _


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, John staggered upright with his cane, limped to the door and started back to 221B Baker Street. After Sherlock had jumped off the rooftop of St. Bart's, John couldn't bear to be anywhere away from the last traces of Sherlock. Sherlock's belongings hadn't been moved from their original places, either.

When he finally staggered through the door, he was greeted by a concerned Mrs. Hudson. "How are you, dear? Shall I make you a cup of tea?" She offered, hands fluttering as she stood beside John at the door. John forced a smile as he looked at Mrs. Hudson. "Tea would be great, thanks, Mrs. Hudson," he tried to say with a smile, but it dropped off his face the moment Mrs. Hudson turned around to head to the kitchen. "Just this once, dear," she called back to John, who was making a beeline towards the flat. "Not your housekeeper."

Although his blog hadn't been touched for nearly three years, John had a strange feeling in his stomach that today would be slightly different. Retrieving his laptop from the cluttered desk, John sank into his armchair and carelessly flung his cane down. He quickly flipped open the laptop and typed the password, stopping for a second as he remembered how easily Sherlock used to be able to hack into his computer. John sighed and looked back at his laptop as he logged into his blog. Strangely enough, there was a message left in his inbox. His eyes widened slightly as he saw it. Who would have suddenly sent him a message? All condolences about Sherlock's death had been left in the comments section of his last post three years ago. John shakily moved his cursor to click on the message icon.

_"John, get me some nicotine patches." _

At this, John's eyes positively popped out of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, slowly opened them and peered at the screen again. He almost dropped his laptop. The black letters stared boldly back at him, forming a request only capable of being sent by Sherlock. John quickly checked when it was sent. Five minutes ago. He collapsed back in his chair, heart racing as he took in the information. It couldn't possibly be anyone else. John knew he had somewhere to go to. For the first time in three years, John felt a spark of hope ignite within him, and it was steadily growing into a glowing ember.

Standing in front of the granite headstone, the name elegantly engraved in gold, John shifted his weight from foot to cane as he tried to gather his thoughts. Eventually, he blurted: "Sherlock, I know that you're alive. I want to see you again." John waited for a few seconds, half expecting Sherlock to appear behind him. Silently counting to three, he squared his shoulders and whirled around, eyes darting everywhere in their desperate search for Sherlock. The graveyard was still empty. There was no one standing behind John. John's shoulders visibly slumped down as he took in the empty sight of the graveyard. _Like Sherlock really is alive, _he thought sadly. _No! _John cursed and inwardly berated himself. _I know Sherlock wouldn't just jump. He must be alive. He's just… somewhere else at the moment. _John sighed and slowly turned away from the black headstone, which gleamed back at him. It reminded John of the spark in Sherlock's bright eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

John limped heavily out of the graveyard, clutching his cane as if it were his lifeline. He decided to walk back to Baker Street, as he needed time to clear his head. As he turned into the main road, his phone vibrated in his pocket. John wearily pulled his mobile out and clicked the screen on.

_Want to go for a pint? -GL _

John didn't really feel like going out after what happened today, but he didn't want Lestrade checking up on him frequently and, although he didn't want to admit it, he desperately wanted to know who was behind all the familiar messages they had received that day. Maybe Lestrade had tracked the address?

_Where? -JW _

His phone rang almost immediately after he had pressed send.

_The Red Lion, at 2. –GL_

John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and started heading to the pub. He really didn't feel like having a drink, but a nice cup of hot tea would probably calm his nerves a bit.

When John arrived at the pub, Lestrade was already there, waiting for him. John was glad to see that Lestrade hadn't brought any other members of Scotland Yard with him. Plopping down into the chair next to the DI, John set his cane down and looked expectantly at Lestrade. "We haven't traced the texts yet," Lestrade told him, "But we're on it, alright?" John nodded glumly and stared at the table. Suddenly, he felt like a cuppa wouldn't help much. "Thanks, mate," John returned at last. "You know, I don't really feel like having a drink now, so I'll see you later. I appreciate it, Lestrade, really."

"I'll text you later," Lestrade called after his retreating figure, a worried expression on his face. John didn't hear him.

John decided he should start heading back to 221B. _Better not to worry Mrs. Hudson, _he thought. He was walking down the road when his phone buzzed again. John extracted the phone from his pocket, groaning in exasperation. _What now? _ He thought, opening the message. As soon as he read what it said, he suddenly stopped right in the middle of the road, open mouthed, staring dumbly at the small screen. Annoyed pedestrians glared at him and a man grumbled at John under his breath, but John didn't hear or acknowledge any of them. His mind was racing, focused only on that one message.

_John, we're out of milk. –SH_

John looked up. He was standing right outside Tesco.


	4. Chapter 4

_No way, _John thought as he entered the large supermarket. _Well, no harm in getting milk, I did need some for my tea anyway._ Carrying his carton of milk to the checkout, John glared at the self – service machine for the first time in ages. Even after such a long time, he still ended up having a row with the stupid machine and had to resort to joining the long line for the cashier. The cashier's whiny voice penetrated his thoughts. "That will be two pounds, sir," she was saying. John propped his cane against the counter and dug his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve his wallet. Suddenly, his mobile pinged. A sudden barrage of 'ding's followed, followed by strange looks directed at him by the people in the line. Murmuring an apology to the cashier, John felt his heart beat faster. He only knew one person with an unlimited texting plan, who texted him like that.

_John, come back to 221B if convenient. If inconvenient, come back anyways. –SH_

_I need your assistance in an experiment. –SH_

_Thank you for keeping my violin, John. –SH_

_John? -SH_

_John. Please respond. –SH_

_I understand that we need to talk, John. –SH _

That did it. John thrust two pounds at the cashier, and ran off forgetting to take the carton of milk. That wasn't the only thing he had forgotten. He had also forgotten his cane in the process.

John ran like he was being pursued by wild hounds. He rounded the corner and ran faster. 221B was in sight now. John flung open the door with a bang, the sound resonating around the building. That sent Mrs. Hudson hurrying out, but she didn't look at all distressed, or overjoyed. "John, dear, do try not to destroy my paintwork!" she scolded mildly. "Damn the paintwork!" John exclaimed, eliciting an indignant gasp from Mrs. Hudson. He groaned and leaned against the wall, covering his eyes with one hand. "Sorry. I am so sorry, Mrs. Hudson." He removed his hand and looked at his landlady. "Did anyone come in here in the last fifteen minutes?" Mrs. Hudson scrunched her eyebrows together in thought. "Well, there was one old gentleman who came in, asking for directions to, Charter Building, it was. I invited him in for a cup of tea, but he declined and hurried off."

_Charter Building? That's where Ella's office is!_ _Was Sherlock deliberately avoiding him? _John felt a sudden rush of anger. _He comes back after faking his death for three years, and now he tries to lead me on a wild goose chase? _ "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he called, brushing past her and stomping vigorously up the stairs. John fell angrily into his armchair, legs giving out beneath him. A part of him was already convinced, Sherlock was alive. But he wanted an explanation first. Not to be lead all over London by his presumably dead friend.

That was when his mobile rang.

John let out a shout of exasperation and snatched his phone off the table. It was Ella, his psychiatrist. _That's strange, _John thought, _Ella never calls me, she always follows her schedule. _ Frowning slightly, John pressed the answer button. "Ella, whatever it is, can we reschedule or something?" John wearily spoke into the phone as he rubbed a hand against his forehead. He groaned when Ella told him that she couldn't reschedule, and that she had to see him straight away. "It will help so much, John – "she began, but John cut her off agitatedly, hastily agreeing to go and see her. He hung up as soon as the sentence was out of his mouth.

The receptionist of Stafford Offices greeted him as John walked grumpily into the waiting – room and sat heavily down in a chair. "You don't have to wait for your appointment today, Dr. Watson," she told him, cheerily. "Please go right in." John nodded distractedly at her and stumbled into Ella's office. Something was going on. When Ella had called him, he thought there was something off. Ella never called him, not even when there was a particularly important piece of news she wanted to discuss with him. John silently headed straight for the plush chairs. He wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible. Strangely, Ella wasn't standing up to greet him, like she normally would, nor was she even facing him. John's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He cleared his throat. "So… you called me to talk about something?" he ventured.

The chair swiveled round in one smooth, fluid motion. John glanced up when he heard the chair squeak, but he wasn't prepared for what met his eyes next. There, in the chair, sat Sherlock Holmes, wholly alive and with a small smirk gracing his features.

John was hit by a sudden rush of emotions. He found he couldn't say anything, his jaw had flopped open and eyes practically bugging out of his head. He tried to form a coherent sentence, but failed miserably, so he settled on staring at his best friend, seated in the black chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he gazed evenly back at John.

For a few seconds, no one said anything. Questions were exploding in John's head as he stared at the figure in front of him. Sherlock met his gaze, stony expression slowly fading, and the uncertainty behind his placid façade finally showing. "John?" he asked, quietly. John gaped. "But… Ella phoned me – "

Sherlock shook his head. "I wanted to speak privately with you first before returning to 221B."

John suddenly shook his head stood bolt upright, his hidden emotions flooding out all at once. With a mixture of relief, joy and anger painted on his face, he marched over to Sherlock and punched him. In the face.

Sherlock had expected that blow. So he sat still and took it. However, when John tried to punch him again, Sherlock quickly grasped his arms and fought for eye contact with his raging flatmate. "John, please stop. I will explain to you in due time where I have been, so please just calm – "John yanked his arms free from Sherlock's grip and glared at him, getting redder in the face by the second. "Calm down? CALM DOWN? You expect me to be able to calm down after three years of grieving and bloody believing that you were dead, you expect me to just take in the fact that you weren't this whole time, and you couldn't even drop a hint to let your best friend know that you were alive, Sherlock? Do you know what you put me through?" John turned away, shaking, his rant stopped, as if all the energy had been drained from him. He lowered his head and closed his eyes tightly fists clenched at his sides. "John, I – "Sherlock started, but before he could finish his sentence, John spun around and strode back over to Sherlock. Sherlock ducked quickly, assuming John would try to hit him again, but John reached out instead and pulled Sherlock into a bone – crushing hug. Burying his face into the familiar black coat that smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee, John muttered something that Sherlock barely heard. "For once in your life, Sherlock, shut up and let me have this moment."

Sherlock tensed up as John hugged him tightly, but he soon relaxed into the embrace and awkwardly tried to hug his flatmate back. Everything was still, apart from the steady ticking of the clock and John's occasional muffled sniffles into Sherlock's black coat. Eventually, after what seemed like a century, John let go of Sherlock and roughly swiped at his face with his hands. "You still have to tell me what happened in the last three years, Sherlock," John said firmly, a slight touch of anger in his voice. Sherlock sighed. "I'd really rather not discuss right now – "he started, but John firmly shook his head. "You owe me an explanation after everything you put me through, Sherlock."

Sherlock met John's gaze for a minute. Then he dropped down on the sofa and acquiesced. "I suppose I'll start where I went to St. Bart's to meet Moriarty," Sherlock began, "he informed me had had snipers trained on three of you – Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you. If I didn't jump, the snipers would have killed you." John's eyes had widened at this, but he didn't speak and gestured for Sherlock to continue. "Moriarty had a code word to stop the snipers, but before I could get it out of him, he shot himself. He had informed the snipers in advance that if he was in any way harmed, they would have to see me jump off the building, or else they would have pulled the triggers. So the only way to save you three was to jump." John suddenly felt dizzy. There was a sniper trained on him the entire time he was talking to Sherlock, pleading with him not to jump? But the next part of the story was like a punch in the stomach. "Molly helped me fake my death. She had designed a fake corpse, so lifelike that you would believe I was really dead. I – "John cut him off in a rush of anger. "You trusted Molly and not me? Your best friend? I could have helped you, Sherlock. This whole time, Molly knew and she never said anything?"

Sherlock was not expecting this outburst. He gazed at John for a few seconds, face black as always, before he spoke again. "Consider it, John. If you had known, would you have tried to follow me?" John grudgingly remained silent and pressed his lips together, looking down at his hands. "I was an army doctor, Sherlock," he muttered. "I can look after myself." Sherlock nodded, still looking at John, but said: "I didn't want to take any chances, John. You must understand -" "Understand what, Sherlock?" John interrupted. He buried his face in his hands. "I missed you," he mumbled. "A lot."

Sherlock remained passive, allowing John some time to collect his thoughts. "I apologize, John," he said slowly, trying not to anger his flatmate further. "But you have to understand I had to assure that Moriarty's ring had no chance of returning." John's steely expression softened upon seeing Sherlock's face, the blankness gone, uncertainty written all over it, a hidden concern slipping through his eyes. _And to ensure he didn't strap a bomb to my flatmate again, threaten my landlady or try to shoot the one tolerable person in Scotland Yard who provides me with cases._

"Well… thanks, Sherlock," John said slowly, a smile turning the corners of his mouth. The small smile turned into a full – fledged grin as he registered the unspoken thought and added: "How's Mycroft?"

Sherlock scowled as John sniggered. "I care not about my _dearest_ brother, John. I thought that would have been obvious. Now," he continued, with a slight hint of impatience, "about where I've been. I was tracking Moriarty's ring, ensuring they would not come back to further cause problems in England." All this was said with a steely look in Sherlock's eyes, and John decided he didn't want to know what had happened to the rest of Moriarty's ring. "So all this time you were tracking them down?"

"That is correct, John. Glad to see you're able to keep up."

John scowled and rolled his eyes, but smiled inwardly. His flatmate was back with his snarky attitude, and John felt oddly touched. Sherlock was protecting him? John finally let his grin appear, as he stood up and headed for the door, looking back at his flatmate. "I could do with a cup of tea," he declared, feeling strangely lighthearted.


	5. Chapter 5

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock called.

As John took out the cups (two of them), he felt content at the fact that his best friend was back, and he wouldn't be going anywhere. Then a thought occurred to him and he promptly abandoned the teapot. "Sherlock?" he called, making his way quickly back into the sitting room.

"What is it, John?"

John shook his head and pressed his lips together for a moment before looking up to face his flatmate. "How," he began, "are we going to tell Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson trotted up the stairs upon hearing voices in 221B. Assuming John was back with a visitor, she hurried back downstairs into her kitchen to get some refreshments for them. John rarely brought people back home, so it must have been a special occasion. Just as she arrived outside their door, the door was suddenly pulled open and John stepped out of the doorway. Mrs. Hudson started slightly with a slight gasp when the door opened, but quickly recovered and smiled up at John. "Oh, John, dear, have you got company? I've brought you some homemade biscuits!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson fondly. "Just this once, dear," she added. "Not your housekeeper."

"Well…" John looked oddly happy, which he hadn't in a long time. However, at the same time, distinctly uncomfortable. "Do come in, Mrs. Hudson, I was just looking for you," John said distractedly, sidestepping to usher Mrs. Hudson in. There's someone you should see." With that, John held the door open for Mrs. Hudson as she bustled into the flat, carrying a tray with a plate of oatmeal cookies perilously piled on top. When she saw the elderly gentleman from earlier, she nearly dropped the tray. "Oh! Are you a friend of John's?" she exclaimed, setting the tray down. "Do have some biscuits, and I'll leave you both to whatever business you have." She beamed at John and started for the door, but John put his arm around her shoulders, steered her back towards the old man and emphasized, "This old guy is indeed a _very_ good friend of mine, which is why you should meet him again, Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson was rather surprised for a moment. "Oh!" she exulted. "Well, I am Mrs. Hudson." She smiled kindly at the man who was seated on the sofa. "And who might you be?" The old man rose off the sofa and stood to his full height, which was earlier disguised by hunching his shoulders. "I certainly am offended, Mrs. Hudson. Can't you recognize one of your own tenants?" Pulling off his beard (at that, Mrs. Hudson emitted a slight gasp and John winced slightly) and cap, Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a quick, tentative smile. Mrs. Hudson gasped in surprise, hands flying up to her mouth. For a second, nobody moved. Then Mrs. Hudson started hurriedly for Sherlock, hands fluttering as she inspected his condition. "Sherlock, dear, where have you been? Do you know how much you've worried poor John? Oh, dear, have you been eating at all?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as his landlady thoroughly inspected his condition, fussing over him. He glared at John, who was trying to muffle his sniggers. Mrs. Hudson did indeed know how to conduct an interrogation.

After an endless tirade of questions on Sherlock's wellbeing and a lecture on how much he'd worried them all, Mrs. Hudson finally gave Sherlock a fierce hug. "Now don't you do that again, Sherlock Holmes. We all missed you so much, dear." Sherlock looked down at Mrs. Hudson, embracing her just like he did John, and closed his eyes. "I won't. It's good to be back, Mrs. Hudson." Stepping back and tugging her hanky out of her pocket, Mrs. Hudson started for the door. "Well then, I'll leave you two boys to have a moment." Dabbing her eyes with her hanky as she hurried out the door, Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps were soon heard on the stairs. Suddenly, the steady pattering of her feet stopped. "Oh, and Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice floated back up to the flat. "You still need to fix my wall."

John and Sherlock both glanced towards the yellow spray – painted smiley, which had deep puncture holes and peeling wallpaper decorating its features. Sherlock rolled his eyes, retrieved John's gun and promptly fired a round into the wall. John sniggered as an indignant exclamation was heard from the stairs. Sherlock nonchalantly tossed John's gun back into the drawer and looked back at him expectantly, as if nothing had happened. "John, I want more tea."


	6. Chapter 6

John re - entered the kitchen and, out of habit, continued making enough tea for two cups. He smiled fondly as he took out Sherlock's mug, which was a navy blue colour (Sherlock claimed he had gotten it during a visit to a maritime museum, where he had helped to solve a case). As he was waiting for the tea to boil, he heard a string of rapid, impatient knocking on the door. _That's strange, _John thought. When he didn't hear the familiar squeak of the door, he strode out of the kitchen to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, not even attempting to make a move to answer the door. John threw an exasperated glance in Sherlock's direction and reached for the door, pulling it open. To his surprise, the cashier from Tesco's was leaning casually against the doorframe and holding out two things. "You forgot your milk, sir, and your cane," she drawled through a mouthful of chewing gum, dangling the cane from her hand. "Can't see how you'd forget that."

John stared at his cane for a moment. He hadn't remembered his cane at all, it had never crossed his mind since he'd run out of Tesco. Seeing the impatient look that the cashier was throwing him, he quickly retrieved both items and thanked her, closing the door. When he heard her loudly retreating footsteps on the stairs, he slowly turned around to see a smirking Sherlock, leaning against the wall. "You might as well dump that cane, John," he decided. "It dramatically hinders your ability to chase murderers around London. And do try shooting that smiley sometime. Your aim is considerably off." John glared at Sherlock, receiving a smug smirk in return, but he tossed the cane to one side. "I'm not even going to ask how you deduced anything about how I handled my gun, but my aim is perfectly fine, thank you."

Later that evening, the sound of the violin echoed beautifully through the flat, as Sherlock played one of John's favourite melodies. John leaned back on the sofa, steaming cup of tea in hand, enjoying the familiar sound he missed so much in Sherlock's absence. Suddenly, a question popped into John's head. "Sherlock," he said absently, "how do we announce the fact that you're back to Scotland Yard?" The melody abruptly stopped, the note cut off with a slight squeak, but the beautiful music resumed almost straight away to fill the room once more. Sherlock didn't reply, but John didn't miss the smirk that flickered across his face. Shaking his head and grinning, John sank back into the cushions closed his eyes once again, allowing himself to be carried away by the flowing notes.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Sherlock was already up way before John and was pacing the flat relentlessly. "Good morning, John," he acknowledged when a disheveled John appeared in the living room. A yawn was his only response. "Hurry up, you're being as slow as Anderson is when he's taking an IQ test," Sherlock grumbled impatiently. John shot him a glare as he opened the fridge door deliberately slowly in search of milk. Upon opening the door, he groaned in disgust and shut it quickly. "Sherlock!" John called. "Why is there another human head in the fridge, and why is it wearing my sunglasses?" "I was testing the speed of decay in the human eyeballs after death and he is wearing your sunglasses simply because the state of his eyes is rather nasty at the moment," Sherlock called airily back. "Now hurry up, John, I'm bored, I need a case and we're going to Scotland Yard for one." John rolled his eyes but dutifully wolfed down his cereal.

Now, it was uncommon for panicked screaming to be heard from Scotland Yard, but when Sherlock casually swept through the doors, the receptionists immediately went into mini – panic attacks. Sherlock strode disdainfully past them, muttering about 'incompetents who can't even handle the sight of a person'.

The reactions when he stepped into the offices weren't any better. The first person they saw was Anderson, who dropped his coffee at the sight of Sherlock. "Why, hello, Anderson. Shame you dropped your coffee, it has so much more use than you do…" Anderson could only watch his retreating back as John mouthed a quick apology to him, trying to repress his sniggers. Sherlock was met with open mouthed stares, gasps and whispers. He ignored them all, until he caught sight of a white faced Sally Donovan. "Hello, Donovan," he acknowledged coolly, "Haven't changed after three years, have you? I see you scrubbed Anderson's walls yesterday…"

John nudged Sherlock as they continued towards Lestrade's office. "You really should stop greeting people like that," he muttered, but the amusement was clear in his voice. Sherlock glared at John. "I couldn't help it," he shrugged. "I mean, how can you miss the state of her knees? It was too obvious to miss." "To you it was," John mumbled. Finally they reached Lestrade's office. Sherlock didn't bother knocking.

Lestrade's head shot up when the door to his office was flung open. "I always told you to knock – "he began, annoyed, assuming it was one of his colleagues. His sentence fell short and his mouth dropped open when he saw who was at the door. John stood, grinning, and that alone was shocking enough after seeing him in a depressed state for so long. What was even more shocking was the fact that Sherlock Holmes was standing next to him, a slight hint of a smile on his face. "Lestrade," he greeted. "Do close your mouth, you look unappealingly like a fish out of water." Lestrade gaped for a few more seconds, before snapping his mouth shut. Then he strode around his desk and promptly punched Sherlock.

"You complete arse! We thought you were dead!" Lestrade shouted. Sherlock sighed, rubbing his cheek, and stalked out of his office. A few seconds later, he was back carrying something terribly familiar, which was a shockingly bright shade of orange. Sherlock tossed the Shock Blanket to John, who grinned and draped it quickly around the DI's shoulders before he could object. "There," Sherlock smirked at the look on Lestrade's face. "You have a blanket, so calm down, Lestrade. I apologize for my absence – "Lestrade spluttered indignantly – "but I assure you that, yes, I am real." Lestrade stared at Sherlock before finally grinning and throwing his arms around him in a crushing hug. Sherlock rolled his eyes but awkwardly patted Lestrade on the back before he pulled away. "Well, mate," Lestrade finally said, shaking his head, "We've got quite a few cases we could use your help with, but first, you owe me an explanation." Sherlock groaned dramatically. "Sorry about that, by the way," Lestrade said sheepishly, gesturing belatedly to the forming bruise on Sherlock's cheek. "No matter, Lestrade. I just love being greeted with a punch to the face." Sherlock rolled his eyes before allowing a small smile to escape. "It's good to see you again."


	8. Chapter 8

Thirteen interruptions and six cups of tea later, Lestrade was finally satisfied with Sherlock's explanation of his absence and was retrieving some case files for him. "Here's a new one – probably a serial killer. Monday, first day of the week, one person killed. Tuesday, two people dropped dead at the same time. Wednesday, three people and so on. He also appears to follow the order of the periodic table, using elements to kill his victims. No idea where he gets all the chemicals, and we've got to find him before he carries this into next week."

Sherlock closed the file with a snap and bolted upright. "Interesting case, this one, but easy." He strode out the door, John quickly followed and grinned to himself. The world's only consulting detective was back.

A day later, the murderer was caught and Lestrade had officially landed Sherlock back in business. Sherlock and John were in 221B when the news caught John's eye. The headlines screamed: DEAD DETECTIVE WALKING! SHERLOCK HOLMES ALIVE!

John grinned as he read the continuous stream of praise for Sherlock. As he turned the page, another headline caught his eye. PERIODIC PERPETRATOR CAUGHT! John snorted and sniggered at the nickname the press assigned to the killer. Periodic Perpetrator? John would have to add that to his blog.


End file.
